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A Modern Epidemic
Cancer, an ugly word. When someone says it, unfortunately, everyone can relate to it. Even I can, as I said before unfortunately. If you don’t know why it is unfortunate to relate to it you are lucky. Let me tell you the story of my encounter with cancer.

A very raw and personal account by a woman facing the loss of a dear friend.
I have a very dear friend who has struggled for the last few years with cancer. We thought it was all over with and that she was in remission but, no, it's back.

My mummy died this morning. She was the most humble and devoted mother. A devout Muslim from India who spent the last 55 years of her life bringing up her four children and ten grandchildren in London. Those who knew her or of her will know she was an amazing woman who suffered much hardship over the years. Despite this, she seldom complained about anything and saw it as her mission to look after others and put their needs before hers.

My family joke about death. Thirty years ago, aged 50, I had a major coronary. I was told I had lost a third of my heart and that I would have to take life easy.
I have not.
I continued working. At the age of 64 I sailed my yacht to St Petersburg, a four-month, 4,000 miles cruise through 13 countries. A third of this was done single-handed.
I have now had numerous coronaries (I think about ten), three mini-strokes, pulmonary embolism and been resuscitated numerous times, possibly as many as 15.

There should be an official list called ‘Things to NOT Say to Someone Whose Brother Just Died’. A list like that is not something I would have even thought about before May 2014 but now, having watched my brother die in February and grieving our family’s loss, insensitive comments such as, "To be fair, you did know he was going to die," are real gripes of mine and have shown me just how bad we are as a nation at dealing with death.

My precious daughter Freya had Cystic Fibrosis and died in hospital at the age of 24 in June 2014.
During her last few days, a young, dynamic nurse encouraged her to talk about her funeral and so she did. It was actually a happy moment; we even managed to laugh.

I lost my father to Parkinson's and dementia and my mother to a rare kidney disorder. Having looked after them for the last year of their lives, I saw first hand the benefit of preparing for and talking about death.

One thing I have learnt about death is how it helped me discover about life, and how much it humbled me.
Like a tree out of season, all my leaves (layers of beliefs and comforts) are stripped away to a point I am left open, vulnerable and in a place where I am taught lessons of truth from life.
It showed me how in everyday life we get caught up with what we are doing, what we are gaining, what we are buying. We get caught up rushing, always striving for more and more. I started to think "Why? What is important to me?"

As a medical registrar, I am faced with death more often than I would like. Some deaths are peaceful and diginified, others are filled with uncontrollable symptoms despite a doctor or nurse's best efforts. Some people have the chance to say goodbye and over the years I have come to realise how important this is: a time to say goodbye. It always affects me far more when relatives have not had those precious moments to say to their loved one those last few words. Memories of the final words spoken, whether they be said in love or anger, are with you forever.

My husband was only 58. He was admitted to hospital with shortness of breath and blood in his urine. On Monday, he had a scan. We were given the results on Tuesday evening, and it was about as bad as it could get - a tumour that originated in one of his kidneys had spread to most of the organs in his chest and abdomen; it was even inside his heart.